


Drink and Melancholy

by SebDaryus



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5795773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SebDaryus/pseuds/SebDaryus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian spoke so often of drinking that it was no secret and no surprise to find him a little on the tipsy side occasionally at the tavern. But mixing drink with melancholy never ends well, least of all when old wounds are made new again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dorian liked to drink. Mahanon knew that well. It was no secret, _everyone_ knew it. The man talked about it enough that no one paid any mind to find him a little on the tipsy side late at night in the tavern. Mahanon had smelled it on his breath enough at night when the Tevinter was feeling a little more handsy and playful than usual – which was saying something. But the Inquisitor had never thought it was a problem. There was never a moment when they were on an expedition that Dorian had more than a couple mouthfuls; it never got in the way of the work they had.

It was a slow day, filled with diplomatic relations and high tension in the war room. Mahanon rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension in the muscles. A slow and _excruciating_ day. Which, of course, meant that it was an uneventful day for most of his other friends that weren’t involved in the negotiations. Josie and Cullen were at each other’s throats, as per usual, and Leliana wasn’t helping very much on that front. The only relief Mahanon had was that he wouldn’t have to face it again until the morning. Josie had taken pity on the exhausted Inquisitor and suggested they retire for the night. To say they turned in early could suggest it would still be daylight, but it was well into the night when they broke apart.

Mahanon knew where he would find Dorian on a day like today.

 

The mood was jovial and loud in the tavern, just as it always was. The bard was singing the same small collection of songs he always played, the lanterns and candles providing just enough light to see each other’s faces, and perhaps lend to setting the mood. He could see Bull in his usual spot, playing some sort of dice game with one of the soldiers. Dorian was at the far end of the bar, nursing the last dregs of a drink. Already Mahanon’s mood was lifting, along with the weight on his shoulders. He made his way past the tables and people, giving brief greetings as he went, but not stopping on his way to Dorian. He moved in close to the Tevinter, sliding his arm around his lover’s waist.

“If you stare at that glass any harder, I’m frightened it might burst into flame.” He murmured teasingly in Dorian’s ear.

The touch and voice startled Dorian, but Mahanon could see the reaction tightly restrained, muscles straining not to give away anything. Dorian looked up, and only just then did Mahanon notice how hard of an expression he wore and how tightly strung his muscles were. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said Dorian was the one in heated negotiations and arguments since dawn.

The expression on Dorian’s face didn’t melt away or ease into the cocky smile that Mahanon knew so well – if anything, it twisted unpleasantly.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Mahanon asked before Dorian had a chance to speak.

Dorian picked up the glass and downed the last of it before setting it down, hard and loud, on the counter. “ _Nothing_.” He all but spat out, shifting to try and move out of Mahanon’s touch.

Carefully, Mahanon moved back. He slid onto the stool next to Dorian, worry creasing his face. “It doesn’t look like _nothing_ to me, Dorian.” He said gently, leaning towards Dorian, but careful not to touch him.

“Don’t you have something _important_ to do, Inquisitor?” Dorian sneered impatiently, with a nasty look. It startled Mahanon into silence. He had never seen that look on Dorian before – not towards him, at least. Maybe towards his father, but never him.

Mahanon gently reached to touch Dorian’s arm, “Dorian-“ but he didn’t get any further before the Tevinter jerked his arm back.

“Don’t you _fucking_ touch me!”

Mahanon drew his hand back as though it had been burnt, completely bewildered. The look on his face must have brought some small sense to Dorian, because he hesitated, looking a little startled at himself. He eased slightly, though it was clearly forced. The unpleasant look on his face eased in intensity, but never completely left it.

“I seem to have left my manners elsewhere. Excuse me while I go retrieve them, Inquisitor.” Dorian muttered, still sounding harsh and bitter, if a little quieter. He gave a small push to the empty glass, away from him, before moving in swaying, unsteady movements off his stool and out of the tavern. Everything about his demeanor forbade Mahanon from following him, as much as he wanted to run after him and demand, beg, plead him to tell him what was the matter.

Instead he sat there, bewildered and looking like a lost idiot at the bar. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings again, eyes carefully avoiding him. Part of the tavern had settled into an uncomfortable silence. Mahanon’s skin felt like it was on fire, his every nerve raw. He could feel the tips of his ears burning red.

Slowly, with wooden movements, Mahanon turned towards the barkeep. “Cabot. Did something happen?”

Cabot busied himself with cleaning an already spotless glass, not looking at the Inquisitor. “You’ll have to be askin’ him about that, now won’t you? I listen to problems same as any other man behind a bar, but gettin’ in the middle is where I don’t go. Lover’s quarrel is a lover’s quarrel, no place for us outsiders.”

Mahanon let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, disappointed when it came out as a huff. He looked down, blinking away the stinging in his eyes. Must be the smoke.

The noise level was rising again as people carried on with their conversations, the entertainment clearly over. Mahanon felt shell shocked. What in the Creator’s name was _that_? He wracked his brain, trying desperately to find what he had done wrong. Had he missed something? Forgotten something? Maybe there was something he said carelessly to hurt Dorian? Maybe there was some sort of misunderstanding. There were always rumors abound, could one have hit a little too closely for Dorian?

He’d have to talk to Dorian once he was sober. He may not have seen Dorian like this before, but Mahanon knew better than to try and reason with a man when he was drunk and angry.

Mouth dry, limbs feeling wooden, the Inquisitor left the tavern to its drink and gossip. No doubt some interesting rumors were to spring up after that display – but to hell with them. Mahanon couldn’t care less what they had to say about this. There was only one person who he cared about right now. Unfortunately, he would have to wait some time until he could resolve it. Tomorrow was another full day of negotiations and dignitaries, bickering among his council.

 

He went to bed, tighter than a bowstring and mind buzzing so intensely that he thought he would never fall asleep. At some point he must have, because it was sometime before dawn when he was awoken.

 

Nerves still raw and alive from the previous day and the encounter with Dorian at the tavern, he jerked violently awake when he felt the side of his bed dip. A sharp, deep intake of breath caught the familiar smell of spices, herbs, and scented shampoos that he knew so well. He let out the breath, and with it some of the tension. The waning moonlight showed the darkened skin, shine of hair, but hid Dorian’s face in shadows. Dorian moved without hesitation, pressing his face to the crook of Mahanon’s neck, hand sliding under covers and up Mahanon’s nightshirt. Dorian’s breath and mouth was hot on his throat, hand freezing on his skin – and the stink of drink now overwhelming all other familiar scents of his lover.

Groggy and confused, Mahanon tried to move to see Dorian, but Dorian only continued, kissing at the tender skin between neck and shoulder.

“Dorian – I – wait,“ Mahanon murmured, shifting again away from Dorian some. Dorian pulled the bedclothes back and started to pull at the hem of Mahanon’s shorts. “Dorian, I said wait! What are you doing?”

Drunk or not, Mahanon couldn’t make sense of Dorian’s actions. He was still hurt from how Dorian had reacted to him earlier, and as much as he wanted to throw it all out the window and let Dorian do as he pleased, there was something desperately wrong. There were no coy words, cheeky grins, no whispered words of adoration between them. Something was _wrong_.

Dorian stopped, hands still on the knotted drawstring of the shorts, his liquored breath hot and visible in the cold Skyhold night air.

“You had a long day and you’re tense. And you’ve another long and tense day tomorrow.” Dorian finally said, voice biting and barely a whisper in the quiet of the room. “So just shut up and let me do my job.”

The words struck Mahanon hard and deep, like a bolt of lightning or an arrow in the gut. “Do your job? Your _job_?” The words came out harsh, hurt, and louder than he meant. He pushed himself to sit up, forcing Dorian to sit back. Mahanon could see Dorian’s face now, the moonlight hitting it fully and showing the exact same, bitter look he’d worn in the tavern. “When have I _ever_ – what the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“Yes, my job. No, you haven’t ever said it, or likely even thought it. No, because you’re different. You’re the _Chosen One_. Andraste’s holy warrior. Of _course_ you would never. But let us not be children, Inquisitor, because that is exactly what this is. You can talk about _after the war_ and _everlasting love_ as much as your pure little heart desires, but let us not fool ourselves any longer. I told you before, I don’t _care_. I don’t care if you want to use me, I don’t _care_ if I’m a _port in a storm_. Didn’t I? I did. I told you. So let me do what I _do best_ , then I’ll let you go back to sleep.” Dorian didn’t wait before moving in again after his long speech.

“No!” Mahanon shrank back from Dorian’s touches, wounded and confused. “Dorian, we talked about this. You know how I feel about you. And I am _far_ from being pure and innocent.”

Dorian chuckled, deep and unkind. “Oh yes, by now I’m certain I’ve made sure of that, haven’t I?”

“Dorian, what is this about? Where is all of this coming from? This isn’t just the drink talking, I know that much.” He drew in a breath, a thought coming to him. The anger of it hardened his voice, made his jaw clench. “Did someone say something to you?”

“It doesn’t matter what they _said_. It’s what this _is_.”

“What did they say? Who was it?”

Dorian moved back again, his movements almost disgusted. Everything about his gestures, posture, and demeanor was completely foreign to Mahanon right now. “Why? So you can go punish them for their impertinence? How dare they say anything to upset the Inquisitor’s pet whore!”

The word seemed to shock Dorian as much as it did Mahanon. Something like regret and shame crossed Dorian’s face, the first glimpse of something familiar. “I-“ Dorian began, turning away so that the moonlight no longer showed his face. “I’m sorry. I oughtn’t have said that. I’m drunk. Forget it, please.”

All the fight and anger had drained from Dorian, leaving something truly heartbreaking. And there was the truth of it. He could almost see the words that had been said to Dorian, the ones that had struck the man so hard. He knew Dorian had his insecurities, but he hadn’t thought gossip and careless comments could affect him so deeply.

Mahanon slid towards Dorian, reaching out to gently turn his face back towards him. “Emma lath, glandival ar.” _[My love, believe me.]_ He murmured, leaning forward to press his forehead to Dorian’s. “I love you. So much it hurts to breathe when I think of it. More than anything I have loved anything in my life. I am not young, Dorian, and I am not a child. In heart or mind. I would give anything for your sake. I would _do_ anything for your sake alone. So much that it frightens me.” Mahanon closed his eyes. He could feel Dorian’s shaking breath on his face. “I would never ask you to return these feelings. I would never… ask for more than you are willing to give, emma lath. But to hear what you think of yourself… Whether it’s just the drink speaking, or whether you truly think it, I won’t have it. I’d sooner end this completely than have you think that you were nothing more than a _comfort_ at the end of a long day. That you meant little more than a warm bed and eased tensions to me.”

Mahanon realized numbly that Dorian was crying.

“ _Amatus_ …” Dorian breathed, breath hitching with a tightly repressed sob. But Mahanon could feel it through Dorian’s body. He pulled Dorian into a fierce embrace, allowing Dorian to bury his face in his shoulder. He raked a hand up the back of Dorian’s head, through his hair to cradle him closer. Silent sobs shook Dorian; the shoulder of Mahanon’s nightshirt was soon damp with tears.

“I’m sorry, Amatus.” Dorian whispered hoarsely into the shoulder, clutching desperately like a child at the Elf.

Slowly, carefully, Mahanon pulled Dorian to lay down, keeping him cradled close. He stroked Dorian’s hair gently, holding his own raging emotions tightly in check. He still couldn’t say exactly what was hurting Dorian right now, or what his lover was thinking – all that mattered was soothing him.

“Atisha, emma lath.” _[Peace, my love.]_ Mahanon whispered into Dorian’s hair, “Sleep, Dorian. Sleep, and we will speak more in the morning.”

Dorian said nothing to agree or disagree. Mahanon didn’t even know if he heard, but he pressed a kiss to the Tevinter’s dark hair nonetheless, and was rewarded with Dorian easing his tension some. He wasn’t sure how he started, but Mahanon found himself humming softly to Dorian as he stroked his hair. It was a tune his mother had hum to him as a child, that her mother had hum to her, and her mother before her. All the mothers in his clan knew the tune, but the words had been long lost to time. Soon he could feel Dorian relax more as he drifted to sleep, exhausted and drunk from the night’s events. Mahanon stayed awake sometime longer, until the first hints of blue crept into the sky, suggesting dawn approaching. There was still so many questions he had, and he wasn’t sure how many answers he would get from Dorian. He feared Dorian would brush this aside, laugh and make a joke of his outburst. No, he did not fear it, he _knew_ it. He knew Dorian too well, had seen how he dealt with things in the past. He still made light-hearted jokes and comments about his father and the treatment he suffered at that man’s hands.

 

Eventually Mahanon embraced sleep again, arms protectively wrapped around Dorian.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

The other side of the bed was empty when Mahanon awoke the next morning, and judging by the cold sheets it had been that way for some time. Mahanon couldn’t say he was surprised. In the months he and Dorian had been together, he could count on one hand the number of times he woke with Dorian still beside him in the morning.

It was well into the morning already, though thankfully not too close to midday. He was surprised he woke at an almost decent hour after how little sleep he had the night before. A knock came at his door. It was loud and impatient – and Mahanon realized what had woken him to begin with. He sighed and threw the bedclothes back, bracing himself against the cold.

There was a sort of understanding among the staff and runners of Skyhold that it wasn’t always safe to enter the Inquisitor’s rooms without being invited. Even with the scarce few times Dorian had stayed, somehow there had been more than enough opportunity for some awkward encounters from the servants of the keep. No doubt those few encounters had been partially what fueled the rumors about him and Dorian.

“Enter!” He called out, running a hand through his hair to straighten it some. An elf girl came sheepishly up the stairs, cheeks and tips of ears tinted pink, as though she expected to come upon some scandalous scene in the Inquisitor’s bedchambers. His suspicions were proven true when she deflated slightly at the empty bed and Inquisitor fully dressed in his nightclothes.

“Yes? What is it?” He asked, patiently.

“It’s – I’m sorry, my lord. Mistress Josephine asked I – um – ask if your grace was ready for your breakfast, sir.”

Mahanon smiled at her. “In other words, I’m to stop lazing around in bed and get to work?”

The girl grinned sheepishly and bowed her head. “What shall I tell her?”

“Tell her I’ll be down momentarily. And do you think you could find Leliana and let her know that I’d like to speak with her, if she has a moment?”

The girl bowed her head again and took her leave.

A platter of cheese, bread, and fruit, with a cordial of wine was brought to his chambers once he had dressed. A delicate and subtle admonishment from Josie. He smiled a little at the platter that just seemed to say _“if you can’t be bothered to wake on time, then you certainly can’t be bothered with a proper breakfast.”_

His mind was still heavy from the events of the night before, but he tried to set them aside. There were a few pages of reports that had come along with the platter, and he reviewed them as he finished off his breakfast. He was almost done with both report and food when Leliana entered, quietly without knocking.

“Did you need something, Inquisitor?” She asked politely, moving to stand by his desk.

“Yes. I need you to look into something. Quietly.”

“Of course.”

“I need you to find out what was said to Dorian last night, and who it was that said it.” Mahanon watched Leliana carefully, knowing what he was asking for was petty. It didn’t matter.

“There are many people to whom Dorian speaks. Is there something particular you are interested in?” Leliana gave no sign that she disapproved of his request, but with Leliana that could mean anything.

“Someone said something to disturb him. I know what this request looks like, but you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Leliana.” He watched as her features softened and she bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement. “I need absolute discretion in this. No written reports, and as few people as you can investigating this. I don’t want anyone hearing of this – not even in rumor and it’s being looked into. Not Cullen, not Josie, not even Dorian.” He paused. “Especially not Dorian.”

“I understand. I’ll have what you need before the end of the day.”

Mahanon breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Normally I’d let chatter and gossip be. However…” He broke eye contact and drifted down to stare hard at his empty plate.

“I’ve heard word of how he acted with you in the tavern last night. You’re right to look into it.”

Mahanon smiled and looked up, comforted by her words. She bowed her head again and turned to leave the room.

He didn’t like going behind Dorian to find out what happened, but he needed to know what had caused Dorian’s bizarre behavior the night before. There was no use in trying to talk to Dorian about this, he’d more than likely omit most of it or brush it all aside. There was no time just now, anyway. Josie’s subtle message was right. He wanted nothing more than to throw all his duties out the window and seek Dorian out to ensure he was alright, but he’d slept in too long, and there was much work to do

 

The rest of the morning and afternoon went along the same way that the previous day had. He wasn’t able to leave the war room until well past midday. As the day went on Mahanon had found it more difficult to devote his complete attention to the matters at hand. He was eager to seek out Dorian, which may have led to Josie suggesting a brief recess in their work. There had been no word from Leliana yet, which could mean anything. He knew he needed to be patient, but it was difficult with so much on his mind already.

Once they broke from the War Room for their brief recess, it took longer than he would have liked to find Dorian – partially due to getting lost one or two times. Most of the inhabitants of Skyhold were accustomed now to seeing the Inquisitor appear in and out of the same door multiple times in a row. Eventually, though, he found him. Dorian hadn’t been in the library like Mahanon had expected, but sitting on a bench in the garden courtyard.

Mahanon stood to the side for a long moment, watching Dorian. He was quite different than he was the night before. The hard, bitter expression was gone, leaving something almost sad and empty in its stead. The light was filtering in from above, at just the right angle. He looked like a vision, sitting there.

He didn’t know what it was that gave him away. Likely the reactions of the others in the courtyard. Some had even gone so far as to take their leave.

Dorian sat up, drew in a deep breath, and turned with a light smile towards Mahanon. “Well, are you going to stand there and admire me all day, or are you going to join me? Not that I could blame you, of course. I am rather admirable.”

There was the Dorian he knew. Smiling, making light of everything.

Mahanon walked over and sat next to him, just close enough so that their knees brushed against each other. He smiled, reaching to rest his hand on the stone bench between them, next to Dorian’s. “How’s your head?”

Dorian laughed, then winced. “Ah yes. Well, I assure you I’m well used to this particular ailment. No need to worry, Amatus. A little Elfroot, hair of the Mabari that bit me, and I’ll be as good as new before you know it.”

Mahanon shifted his hand a little closer, entwining a couple of their fingers. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Dorian looked down at their hands. For a moment the smile slid from his face, the sad look showing through again. Then the moment passed and the smile returned. Dorian slid his hand closer to fully grasp Mahanon’s hand.

“I…” Dorian began, eyes not leaving their hands. He rubbed his thumb over Mahanon’s. “I do hope you could forget that little outburst I had. Last night, I mean. I’m afraid I wasn’t myself, Amatus.”

“I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to, Dorian.”

Dorian looked up again. The smile was forced now, and he gave a laugh that was just as forced. “I suppose that’s what happens when you mix melancholy with alcohol. Though, I dare say I don’t remember much of it. Only enough to know how truly _unflattering_ I was.”

“Don’t say that, ma vhenan.” Mahanon murmured.

“I know, it’s truly unsettling to remember me ever not being at my most charming and alluring. Come, let’s talk of something else. It’s too lovely a day to mar it with such dreary and serious talk. Tell me about all the _exciting_ things you’ve been doing today. Its dangerous business, all that negotiating and arguing. Why, any one of you could get a _paper cut_!”

Mahanon gave Dorian’s hand a small squeeze, and decided to let it be for now. The garden wasn’t exactly the best of places to discuss personal matters, anyway.

“Well, my day has improved significantly since I’ve seen you, now. I wish I could stay all day. But I doubt Josie’s second scolding of the day wouldn’t be quite as mild as the first, if I run off with you while there’s work to be done.”

“Oh? If you like, I could tell Josephine that I would take your scolding into my hands _personally_.” The smile on Dorian’s face curled into something more sincere, if suggestive.

“Mmm. Tempting.” Mahanon leaned towards Dorian, their shoulders touching. “But I really should be going soon. I spent most of the recess _looking_ for you, you know.”

“First hands, now shoulders? Really, Inquisitor, you’ll give the revered mother an _aneurism_. What a scandalous influence I’ve been on you.”

Mahanon stood, still holding Dorian’s hand in his. He leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Dorian’s lips. “Perhaps I should give her more things to think about than my personal affairs.”

“Haven’t you heard? That’s all _everyone_ thinks about.”

“You’d think the war might place a little higher than that.” Mahanon smiled, lingering for as long as he dared, holding on to Dorian’s hand.

“You’d be surprised how dull life can get when no one’s trying to kill you at the moment. People live for the little things in life. Food, sex, and _gossip_. But don’t let me keep you. Can’t have Josephine chastising you – I’ll get _jealous_. And I must tell you, I can get _terribly_ jealous.” Dorian drew Mahanon’s hand to his lips and kissed it lightly before letting go.

“It’ll be another long night tonight. Try not to let that jealousy overcome you, I assure you there is nothing in that room that could interest me more than what I already have here.”

“I strive to meet your expectations. Until later, Amatus.”

Mahanon hesitantly took his leave.

 

He didn’t see Leliana until after they had retired for the day. He was on his way back to his quarters, weary and exhausted from the day of mind-numbing bickering and negotiations, when she approached him.

“Inquisitor. If you have a moment.”

The effect of seeing her was like a cup of Solas’s bitter tea. He was wide awake, heart suddenly beating fast.

“Yes, of course.” He glanced towards the door leading to his chambers – he didn’t know whether Dorian was in there or not.

Leliana nodded and gestured towards the door. Mahanon wasn’t sure how she knew, but he trusted she was certain they were empty. He gave a shrug and led her in, glancing around for any lurkers in the hall to spread rumors. It didn’t matter, people said whatever they wanted whether they saw anything or not – he was growing more impatient by the second to hear her report.

“Tell me you found something.” He said as they entered his room, after he glanced around to check for Dorian.

“I believe I have. He talked to many people last night, but his mood didn’t seem to change until after a heated conversation with a soldier named Rhys. From what I was able to gather, he was rather drunk at the time, and had some rather… colorful things to say, that Dorian took exception to.”

Mahanon dropped down to sit on the edge of his bed, an unpleasant feeling settling in his stomach. In some perverse way, he had been hoping it was someone he knew that had shaken Dorian up – at least then he could justify giving them a piece of his mind. But a soldier? Most of them were farmers with little sense and a liking towards exaggerating opinions and rumors alike.

“He did more than take exception to it, Leliana. You didn’t see him… What did this _Rhys_ say, exactly?”

Leliana watched Mahanon carefully, no doubt judging what his reaction would be to actually hearing the words.

“Leliana, just tell me. I promise I won’t do anything rash. I just… I need to know.”

“Very well. But, I warn you. It isn’t very pleasant.” She waited until he nodded her to go on. “Rhys was having trouble believing that the Herald of Andraste should have such... personal relations with another man, much less a mage from Tevinter. He was very vocal about his disapproval in the tavern, and to Dorian specifically. There were several who tried to silence him. Then, another insinuated that Dorian was somehow chosen by the Maker to… ease your burden. He called Dorian the _Whore of Andraste_. The comment spread like wildfire, and it turned into a loud and crude joke. I haven’t been able to identify who it was, yet. ”

The _Whore of Andraste_. Mahanon clenched his fist. He had suspected someone had said something, but this? Rumors and gossip were one thing, but there was nothing he could think of to justify this. It was difficult to think that the men he trusted would resort to such cruelty. How far had this _joke_ spread?

Was this what these _shem_ were truly like? He’d listened to those in his clan who were more vocal in their hatred of humans all his life, but he’d always ignored them or chastised them. Even after spending so much time among them since the Inquisition began, he would have never thought of them that way. Now, however, his faith wavered.

“Thank you Leliana. I appreciate you looking into this. Maybe it’s for the best you couldn’t find him. I don’t think I could have kept my promise very well, otherwise.” Mahanon said tensely, staring intently down at his hands.

“Of course. If you like, I can continue working on finding him.”

Mahanon thought for a moment. It was tempting, but probably not wise. There was an anger coiling in his gut; he wasn’t certain he trusted himself not to do something stupid if he knew where to direct it. He already regretted knowing the name _Rhys_.

“No. Thank you.”

Leliana bowed her head in acknowledgement. “Very well. I’ll leave you then, Inquisitor. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Leliana. And truly – thank you.”

She smiled and left. Mahanon let out a slow, controlled breath. Then he began to unlace his boots and peel out of his ornate coat. He had hardly removed his jacket before he heard the door to his chambers creak open. He frowned.

“Did you forget something, Lelia—oh.” Mahanon froze, seeing Dorian appear up the stairs.

“Expecting someone else? Be careful, Amatus, I did warn you about that jealous streak of mine, didn’t I?” Dorian smiled, with no real sign of that ‘infamous’ jealousy he kept boasting about.

“I’m sorry, Dorian, Leliana was just –“

“Yes, yes, I know. The work of the Inquisitor is never finished. I saw her just outside and put two and two together.”

Mahanon relaxed, some of the tension of the day easing out of his muscles. The anger slowly uncoiled from his stomach and ebbed away at the sight of Dorian.

“A lot of men would have put two and two together and gotten thirty two, not four.” Mahanon stood and welcomed Dorian with a small kiss.

“Luckily for you, I was the top of my class. Comes from such high and noble breeding, no doubt. I’m certain all of my family had an affinity for maths.” Dorian pulled Mahanon closer, leering down at him with a devious smile curled on his lips. “Shall I show off some of my other well-bred talents, Inquisitor?”

Mahanon smiled, leaning against Dorian. It felt right. He could almost forget everything from the last two days. The anger, the hurt, the pressure that surrounded him constantly. He wanted nothing more than to just lose himself in Dorian and forget the rest of the world.

_The Whore of Andraste_.

Unwillingly, _that phrase_ echoed in his mind. The _Whore_ sent by Andraste to ease the Herald’s burdens in this world. Mahanon’s smile faltered briefly.

Mahanon gave Dorian a light kiss, and turned back to his bed. “Not tonight, emma lath. I’m dead on my feet.”

He didn’t want to see the wounded disappointment on Dorian’s face. Selfish as it was, he couldn’t bring himself to dredge it up again. He didn’t know yet how to fix it, and he knew how deeply it pained Dorian to speak of it.

“What, did Leliana tire you out so easily?” Dorian teased, following after Mahanon, and stretching out onto the bed once he reached it.

“Don’t even joke about that, Dorian.” Mahanon sighed, moving around to sit on the opposite side of the bed. “You’re welcome to stay, if you like, but I warn you, I’m going to pass out as soon as my head touches the pillow.”

“So dull.” Dorian pouted, but didn’t push the matter. “I suppose I’ll survive.”

Mahanon blew out the candle on his bed stand and pulled off the rest of his clothes, slipping into bed in his smallclothes. He could practically feel Dorian grinning from the other side of the bed. “Don’t get any ideas,” Mahanon said. Dorian chuckled.

The exhaustion was finally catching up to him, now that the adrenaline of Leliana’s report was creeping out of his system. He must have drifted off to sleep for a moment, because the next thing he knew the remainder of the candles had been blown out and Dorian was sliding up next to him under the blankets, mostly stripped of his clothes. Mostly, but not completely. Mahanon sighed contently as Dorian wrapped an arm across his waist and pulled him against his chest.

“Don’t get any ideas.” Dorian murmured teasingly, smiling against Mahanon’s shoulder. The mustache prickled and tickled his skin. “Go back to sleep, Amatus. I’ll keep you warm.”

Mahanon didn’t need to be told twice. He fell asleep, content. He could deal with the report Leliana had given him later. And he’d have to deal with it eventually, but right now Dorian was warm and content again.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few days passed in a blur. Mahanon had meant to find time to talk to Dorian about what happened, but there always seemed to be something to interrupt him, or to derail his thoughts entirely. The day-long meetings he had been in the last few days finally came to an end – only to be replaced with the business of actually dealing with their decisions. There never seemed to be a moment’s peace. There was some small relief in that Dorian seemed to be back to his normal self. There was no telling what that really meant for Dorian, but it was a small happiness than Mahanon reveled in.

In a way, he hated the thought of dredging it all back to the surface again. He hadn’t heard any talk about the _‘Whore of Andraste’_ , and so he hoped it had finally buried itself.

Sometimes Mahanon could see how selfish he was being. Part of him knew it was childish to think it would disappear so easily. But the thought of disturbing the peace they had was enough to make him delay, delay, delay until it was out of mind.

“You know, this may not be any of my business…”

Any time Varric opened a conversation with those words, there was bound to be trouble. Mahanon looked down at the dwarf. “That’s never stopped you before, Varric. What’s on your mind?”

“Is it just me, or does it seem like something’s crawling up under Sparkler’s skin? Trouble in paradise, perhaps?”

Mahanon frowned. As far as he was concerned, Dorian had been nothing but cheerful and his usual self.  “Not that I’ve noticed. What makes you say that?”

Varric gave a vague shrug, casually sweeping his gaze around them as he spoke. “I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. But something definitely seems to be bothering him.”

“Yes, but what _specifically_? This isn’t very helpful, Varric.” Mahanon was growing uneasy. He knew it wasn’t like Varric to worry over something frivolous, at least not aloud.

“Just a lot of little things, really. We all know he likes to drink when he’s bored, but he’s usually the happy sort of tipsy. Turns out he may be happy tipsy, but he’s a miserable drunk.”

Mahanon bristled at the bluntness of the statement.

“Not to mention that it keeps creeping earlier and earlier in the day. But I do have to hand it to him – to be able to switch on the charm and good cheer when you show up; that really is something. Even fool me, if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been keeping an eye on him.” Varric’s voice was lowered, but not in a scandalous whisper that might draw curious ears.

Mahanon was speechless at first. The thought that Dorian could so easily fool him into thinking everything was perfectly fine was painful. Not the fact that he would do it, but the fact that he wouldn’t recognize it. Was Dorian truly that convincing, or was it simply something convenient he wished to believe? He was an idiotic fool to think _anyone_ would be fine after this latest ordeal Dorian had been put through.

“Thank you, Varric.” He said quietly, heart heavy. “I appreciate you telling me. Though… I can’t help but feel that you shouldn’t have to.”

Varric let out a sympathetic sigh. “Sure, anytime. He’s a good man, Inquisitor.”

Mahanon turned to leave. “Yes, he is. Gods know what he’s done to deserve the grief I cause him.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, you’re a good man, too.”

 

It seemed no matter what he did, or didn’t do, things never seemed easier for Dorian. Either he shied away from public displays of affection and people whispered that there was nothing more between them than what they did in bed, or he didn’t try to hide his feelings in public and people whispered that the Tevinter Magister had the Inquisitor wrapped around his corrupted little finger. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Mahanon never thought he’d miss the days when one of the main concerns of the Inquisition supporters was that the Herald of Andraste was a _Dalish Elf_ and a mage to boot. He’d much rather whisperings about himself and his race than whatever _this_ was. There seemed to be no end to it.

Just like everything else in this god-forsaken war.

Mahanon looked down at his clenched hand. There was no crackling or glowing aura emanating from it, but he could still _feel_ it there. The Anchor, weighing him down. In a twisted way he was grateful for it – without it he wouldn’t have met Dorian. It shamed him that he should be grateful for such an evil mark, something that meant death and agony for so many people, and so many more than were to suffer before the end of this. Everyone hinted or insinuated, or in some cases boldly told him to his face, that the mage from Tevinter was no good for him or the Inquisition – but maybe they had it wrong. What had he brought into Dorian’s life, save for pain and humiliation?

Mahanon numbly realized his feet were moving under him. Yes, that was right. He was on his way to meet Cullen in the yard to inspect the troops. Creators forbid he stop and contemplate the happiness of the man who meant more to him than anything. The Inquisitor’s work was never done.

“Inquisitor.” Cullen greeted him as he reached the bottom of the stairs from the main hall. The man looked worn out. If the Inquisitor’s work was never done, he feared what those who worked closest to him must deal with.

Mahanon forced a tight-lipped smile. He gestured forward, “Lead the way, Commander. I’ve been reviewing the reports you had prepared for me.”

“For the most part, we are well stocked. Thanks to the agreements you helped to negotiate in Haven, we are well supplied with arms and armor. However, as always, there are still things that are in dire need…”

Mahanon tried his best to focus on Cullen’s words as he went on, itemizing what was needed and where it was needed and where they could possibly get it from. All of this could have, of course, been taken care of in Cullen’s office, or in the war room – but it was good for morale to see the Inquisitor taking a personal interest in their well-being. He’d heard it from the Iron Bull, Cullen, and countless other advisors. Before the Inquisition, he hadn’t much experience with these sort of things. Well, _any_ experience, to be honest. So he took their word for it.

Somewhere through the haze of Cullen’s endless stream of words and chores, he heard a small cluster of men as they passed. At first, he couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled anxiously as their voices cleared into words.

“—what I’d give to get a piece of that. I wouldn’t mind a little bit of the Herald’s left overs, if you know what I mean. Selfish of him to keep the _Whore of Andraste_ all to himself, is all I’m sayin.”

“Daveth, _shut the fuck up_ , he’ll hear you, you stupid piece of – oh _fuck_ —“

 

The next thing Mahanon knew, his hands were clenched in the collar of the soldier’s tunic. Knuckles white, adrenaline and rage coursing through his veins. He had never felt his temper burn so hot and bright as it did now, where nothing around him mattered and everything went white with his rage. He was yelling something at the man – he hardly even knew what.

He felt a hand gripped on his arm, not tightly enough to threaten, but enough for the sensation to slowly creep into his awareness. Mahanon looked to find Cullen, grim-faced besides him.

“Inquisitor, let me deal with these men.” He urged, probably for the second time, voice lowered.

Mahanon drew in a shaking breath. The world had begun to quickly spin back into focus. He felt sick. He looked back at the soldier, who was incoherently begging forgiveness – from the Maker, Andraste, the Inquisitor, his mother, anyone who would listen. His fingers were numb from the vice-like grip he had on the tunic, but he forced his stiffened fingers to let him go. Heart hammering in his chest and ears, Mahanon felt minuet tremors run through his body as he fought off the tendrils of his fury. The courtyard was unnaturally quiet, all eyes on him.

“ _See to it_.” He managed to bite out, not looking at Cullen or any of the men.

His feet were unwilling, but he made them carry him back to the keep. His fists clenched at his side. Someone nearly leapt out of his way as he passed into the main hall, having seen and heard the incident even from up there. There was no thought in his mind for perceptions and the greater good of the Inquisition. Only the faint, embedded feeling of _duty_ had him holding his temper tight in check.

 

This had to stop. One way or another, it _had_ to stop.

***

_“SAY THOSE WORDS AGAIN, SHEM!”_

Even from the library Mahanon’s voice could be heard, thundering out from the courtyard below. Whatever book Dorian had been browsing was forgotten instantly; he was at the window before the silence settled over the courtyard. It was so rare that Mahanon lost his temper that he sound of it shook him to the core. He could see men and women stopped in the middle of their work all across the ramparts and the courtyard as they tuned to watch.

A chill crept up Dorian’s spine as he watched Cullen ease Mahanon down from his wrath. When he saw the look on Mahanon’s face, as he turned to face Cullen, Dorian knew without a doubt what had happened. He knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but faced with it now, he felt himself in rooted on the spot, and as though there were a vice clamped on his chest.

It wasn’t until Cullen’s eyes glanced towards the library windows, where Dorian stood still in plain view, that he felt himself able to move. His footsteps fell hard on the floor as he stepped out of the window. He looked down, then to the table where his work was left. Since his outburst, Dorian had worked at keeping Mahanon’s mind as far away from the _jokes_ and _gossips_ of the tavern. For the most part, it had worked.

He had thought all the murmurs and chuckles at the little _joke_ had died down by now. It went through phases, like the moon. There were periods of time when no one so much as hinted towards that absurd _title_ ; then, for a time, everyone and their mother deemed it necessary to throw it around casually. It was exhausting, but he had told himself it was better to bare it than to expose Mahanon to such nonsense.

Dorian looked back at the window, safely out of sight from any curious, wandering eyes from the courtyard below. He watched Mahanon storm back up to the main hall. Seeing Dorian now would do nothing but fuel the Elf’s anger. It was best to let him cool down. If the Inquisitor went and killed everyone in Skyhold who uttered the words _Whore of Andraste_ , there’d be no one left to pour the wine. And what a pity that would be.

There was no real malice behind it, he had enough sense to see that. They were little more than farmers and Southern bumpkins with more experience with the backside of sheep than with behaving like _civilized_ people. It was better to bat the remarks away with wit, charm, and scathing retorts. He told himself he was tickled and flattered by the title. It was absurd and obscene – absolutely perfect for him. But he didn’t feel tickled and flattered every time he heard it. Oh, no one dare say it to his face since that first night, but he had very keen ears, especially when it dealt with _himself_. A self-preservation technique he had developed in Tevinter soirees. Now, the difference was that he didn’t _want_ to hear the rumors, gossip, and scandal that followed him everywhere.

He told himself it didn’t matter what the people said, on those nights when everything threatened to swallow him whole, the nights when Mahanon was kept away from him longer than expected. Only when he appeared did Dorian feel that he could breathe again. Like the sun appearing after a storm.

It was foolish and dangerous to let himself hang onto this Elf like this, so pathetic and desperate for his attentions that he’d endure humiliation. Oh, he’d faced humiliation plenty of times in his life, but never for such a beautiful reason as he had now.

Dorian turned to look back at the books and papers that were strewn across his work table. The library was often a perfect place to lock himself away to study – unfortunately, it was also someplace that Mahanon may easily find himself. Dorian made his way carefully down the stairs. Solas only spared him the briefest of glances as he passed through the lower level, heading out the door leading to the courtyard. There were dozens of small alcoves and nooks he could hide himself away in for the time being, and Dorian was certain he could find one to his liking. He just needed to stay there long enough to make his way back inside and to his rooms for the evening without encountering Mahanon.

Bull had once tried to approach him about the gossip going around the tavern, asking if _“the boss”_ knew about all of this. Of course, at the time Dorian thought Mahanon had no idea – so, naturally, he lied. But, to be fair, he did it very well. He settled Bull’s concerns, telling him that of course the Inquisitor knew, and that it was nothing more than a harmless joke. Nerves were raw and tension high from the war – who were they to deny the men a bit of a laugh? Dorian was touched by Bull’s kindness, of course. From what he’d heard, it wasn’t uncommon for the Qunari.

Now, however, Dorian knew Mahanon knew about _the Whore of Andraste_. Or perhaps Dorian was simply the first thing he thought of when he heard that.

Dorian silently chastised himself for the thought.

“Pain, longing for something you cannot reach. Shame, crawling up inside, a scream longing to escape. _He knows_.”

Dorian nearly leapt out of his skin. He hadn’t thought to keep an eye out for Cole, but of course the sprite would be here, of all times. He closed his eyes, nerves on edge. “I’d thank you not to do that. You know how I feel about having my mind _rifled_ through.”

He could hear Cole bounce the heels of his boots against the crate he sat on. Slowly, he took a steadying breath and looked up at the boy. He instantly regretted it; Cole’s eyes were boring into him. He could almost _feel_ the sprite flitting through his mind.

“Lost. Angry at everything and everyone, weight of all pressing down from all sides. Suffocating.” Cole murmured, then dropped his gaze to the ground. There was a distant, sad look on his face. “He’s hurting, as well.”

With a stab of pain, Dorian realized Cole was no longer talking about him. He turned, unable to bare looking at him any longer. “How _enlightening_.” He spat out, “As though I couldn’t _possibly_ figure that out for myself! Tell me, Cole, can you hear _what I’m thinking now?_ ”

He shot a withering look over his shoulder at Cole, who recoiled some, as though he had been struck. Cole met his gaze, and then he was gone. Dorian couldn’t place when and how the boy left, a gap in his memory, but the guilt of it lingered. That hadn’t been very kind of him. Apparently he was cruel and petty when he was wounded. Mahanon often spoke of how much Cole tried to help people, tried to do good. Well. That may be, but Dorian would feel much more comfortable if Cole took his helpfulness elsewhere.

 

It was some hours before Dorian dared to return to his rooms for the evening. Being alone with his thoughts without distraction was not enjoyable. Once back in his room, he was grateful for the collection of books and research he had taken to keeping there. Unfortunately, this evening his in rooms, surrounded by distractions, did nothing to ease his racing mind.  Time crawled by, tick by tick. His melancholy had peaked again, as it was wont to do when left alone with his thoughts and a bottle of wine. Cole’s words just wouldn’t let him be.

What must Mahanon think of him? Dorian knew the Elf would never think anything cruel or unkind, but maybe it would have been easier if he did. Then, Dorian could easily feel indignant, angry, bitter. But, no. He was certain there was nothing but pity from Mahanon, and perhaps fury and anger at those who would dare attack Dorian. He hated this feeling of helplessness, as though he needed Mahanon to champion his battles for him.

These petty rumors and gossip mongering was the least of things that the Inquisitor should be concerning himself with. Dorian longed to tell Mahanon, to shout it if need be, that he could take care of himself. He had bared insult and whispers and giggling behind his back his entire life. At least the Inquisition soldiers didn’t hold the same malice and hatred that those in Tevinter had, for the most part anyway.

Maybe that was what made it hurt the most. The Inquisition thought so lightly and so little of _whatever_ it was he and Mahanon had that they felt comfortable to make an innocent joke of it.

Innocent. _The Whore of Andraste_.

Dorian shook his head and looked ruefully into his wine glass.

His brooding and solitude was interrupted by a knock at the door. Dorian looked up and frowned at it. It was unusual for someone to disturb him at this hour of the night. Hours ago a servant had brought him a platter of food, since he had no intention of joining the hall for supper, but it was a bit late for them to come again.

The knock came again, a little more impatient this time.

Dorian set his book down, marked his place with a loose piece of paper, and moved to answer the door.

“Can I help y-“ he began as he pulled the door open, but cut himself off when he saw who it was.

“Amatus.” Dorian was a little surprised. Mahanon had been to his quarters before, but not enough times that he would expect to find him there. “How ever did you find your way here, without a guide? You’re not lost, I hope?” He tried to sound light and teasing, but was disappointed when it sounded almost chastising.

Mahanon looked a little puzzled at the comment, but Dorian stepped to the side and opened the door wider for him. He offered the Elf a warm smile – though he’d be lucky if it was even halfway believable.

“I was hoping I’d see you after supper, but when you didn’t show...” Mahanon started, cautiously entering Dorian’s room.

“Ah, yes. I’m afraid I was a little more than entranced in my latest reading than I expected to be. They were good enough to bring something down for me.” Dorian closed the door behind Mahanon. At least he seemed cooled from his earlier temper.

“Dorian, we need to talk.”

Oh, those dreaded words. They could mean any number of things, or many things all at once. Dorian could still hear Mahanon’s words from when this whole fiasco began. _‘I’d rather break this off entirely than have you go on believing that!’_

No. If there was one thing Dorian would not allow to happen, it would be that.

Dorian turned smoothly towards Mahanon, smiling flawlessly at him, curling the corner of his lips suggestively. His hands found Mahanon’s hips and pulled him against him, “Oh? My, my. You come all the way to my lonely quarters to _talk_? Think of how the tongues will wag.”

Something uncertain crossed Mahanon’s face. Dorian took the moment’s hesitation to distract him in the way he knew best. He pulled Mahanon closer and caught his lips in a kiss. Distracting people was something Dorian did very well, particularly this sort of distraction, but he couldn’t help but feel the heavy hand of guilt pressing down on his chest. It was low, it was manipulative, and it was less than Mahanon deserved. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop, finding a small sliver of relief when Mahanon’s train of thought seemed pushed aside.

The relief was short-lived, however; Mahanon pulled back and looked at him, worried.

“Dorian,” He began quietly, eyes drifting towards the table where Dorian’s books and papers were scattered haphazardly. Something caught his eye, and he stiffened. Dorian frowned and glanced towards the table, almost expecting a darkspawn to crawl out of it by the way Mahanon reacted to it.

“ _Fenedhis_.” _[Shit]_ Mahanon hissed quietly to himself. His ears tilted ever so slightly, the way they did when he was annoyed.

Of everything Dorian could think of that would annoy Mahanon, his _table_ wasn’t even on the list. “Some sort of Elven acclamation of wonder at my vast range of literary interests?” Dorian ventured, properly perplexed.

Mahanon pulled himself from Dorian’s touch and walked over to the table with heavy steps. “It seems every time I see you lately, you’re either already drunk, or at least halfway there.” He said bitterly, picking up the half-empty wine bottle. “Have I truly not been able to see how miserable you are, Dorian?”

Dorian bristled at the comment. The insinuation that he was _drunk_ cut off any tender feelings he may have had at Mahanon’s concern. He all but stomped his way to the table and snatched the bottle from Mahanon, temper rising more than he’d like. Never mind that at least part of what Mahanon said was true.

“Half a bottle of this _water_ is hardly enough for _anyone_ to get _drunk._ ” Dorian said hotly.

Mahanon looked at him, disappointed. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this, Dorian.”

Dorian gestured widely, exasperated. “When I’m like _what_ , Mahanon?”

“When you’re _drunk_!”

“My, what keen observation skills you have! It is no wonder such an observant man leads our Inquisition! Certainly there is nothing that can escape your notice!” Dorian set the bottle down, harder and louder than he meant, as his voice climbed and became more heated. “Surely there can no reasoning with the drunk magister. How right you are, _Amatus_. Perhaps you ought to go, until I’ve had time to sleep off this drunken stupor! I will certainly only be able to say cruel, hurtful things right now.”

The tips of Mahanon’s ears tinted pink, a hurt look crossing his face as he took a step back from the outburst. Dorian cursed himself silently for causing that hurt, but he was in no mood to soften his temper or his tone. It was as though he had used up every last ounce of self-control he had dealing with _the Whore of Andraste_.

Mahanon looked to the wine bottle on the table again, the hurt giving way to regret. His shoulders drooped, along with his ears in that pitiful way they did when he was sad, and he took a step towards Dorian.

“Forgive me, Dorian. I don’t know what got into me. I wasn’t thinking, it’s just-“ He sighed and looked down. “I’m worried about you.”

Dorian held on to his anger for a moment longer, then let it out in a long, slow breath. It was always difficult to stay angry at Mahanon for long, especially when he was so pathetically apologetic.

“I know, Amatus.” He said quietly, “And I know why. But I don’t want to talk about it. It is what it is – people talk. They will always talk. Soon enough another tasty little morsel of dirty gossip will come along, and no one will even remember. Trust me, I know these things.”

Somehow that managed to have the exact opposite effect on Mahanon than what Dorian had been trying for.

Mahanon looked stricken. “So… you heard about what happened in the courtyard today?”

“It was a little difficult not to hear it _personally_ , to be perfectly honestly.” He smiled, but it didn’t seem to help.

“Gods, Dorian.” Mahanon turned away and raked a hand through his hair. “I acted shamefully, and in front of the whole camp. When I heard those men… I just lost all control. I’ve never felt like that before. Not even with everything we’ve been through since the rift opened. At least with the rift, there’s something I can _do_ about it. But this?”

Dorian stepped into Mahanon’s space again, gently taking him by the shoulders and turning him back to face him. “They’re just words, Amatus. I’ve dealt with words my whole life. The more you fight them, the stronger they become.”

“They may just be words, but I can see that they still _hurt_. I can’t stand by the side while I see you in pain.”

“I am not so delicate that I should shatter,” Dorian laughed, it came out quiet and breathy, “Not from words.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you’d be better off without me.”

“ _No_.” Dorian cut him off firmly, gripping Mahanon’s shoulders, “There is no possible way in which _anything_ would be better if we parted. How could you even think such a thing?”

Mahanon’s hands found Dorian’s waist and rubbed a small circle with his thumb, a gentle gesture, as though he were desperate for some way to comfort Dorian. “All I do is bring you grief. And you bare this all on your own, when you shouldn’t need to. If there was nothing for people to talk about, then there would be nothing for you to suffer through.”

“And just how would that solve anything? Stop and think for a moment, if you can manage it! The rumors would only grow more and more wild. And even if they didn’t! You are the first good thing that has happened to me since I left Tevinter. Arguably, the only good thing in my whole _life_. If you want to break things off, don’t you dare profess it is for my sake!” Dorian fought back the stinging of tears, letting his hands fall from Mahanon’s shoulders.

Mahanon reached to Dorian’s face. Dorian wanted to shove away Mahanon’s hands, refuse all comforts and hold on to his pain. Pain was easier than the comfort and love that was being offered to him so freely. But the warmth of Mahanon’s hands, and the warmth in his eyes were too much. Dorian leaned into the Elf’s gentle touch.

 _Kaffas_ , what a sentimental fool he had let himself become.

“Then don’t hide this hurt from me. You are not alone, ma vhenan.”

Dorian laughed, quietly and without humor. “You have more things to worry about than this, Amatus.”

“But none more important than the man I love.”

Dorian tensed. He had so carefully tucked away the hurt and pain that had been building. So carefully made sure every hint of it was put someplace out of sight, where Mahanon would never see it. The Inquisitor had so much resting on his shoulders, adding more to them seemed entirely too selfish.

“Dorian. Please.” Mahanon looked at him, eyes pleading and face creased with worry and love. Yes, love, so plainly and openly written on his face that it made Dorian ache. Trust was not something that came easily to Dorian. Piece by piece he had begun letting Mahanon get inside him, piece by piece he had given his heart over to this man.

Dorian closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. “We’re going to need some more wine.”

Mahanon laughed quietly, and the sound of it breathed some life into Dorian. The Elf drew his face closer and kissed him, softly. There was no desperation or desire in the kiss, it was something much tenderer, like a promise.

“That, I can do.”


End file.
